The Detective, The Dominatrix, and The Little Emperor
by ALollie
Summary: Series of little un-chronological stories featuring Sherlock, Irene, their son Nero (in any combination) and the rest of the cast. T for non-graphic sex. Prompts always accepted!
1. Chasing Down

**This is a series of non-chronological snapshots of Sherlock and Irene's life. Some (okay, maybe at least more than half) will feature their theoretical son Nero, because that is adorable. **

**Basically, I just get these ideas in my head—just the little stories—that I like, but that are hard for me to put into a story with chronological order. **

**It is also entirely possible that one story will partially and/or completely contradict another. This will happen if I have different ideas about one situation. There will be a warning if it is an altered repeat in case you don't want to read it over. **

* * *

There was a flash of movement. Anderson looked around for whatever it was. He was in Scotland Yard, since Lestrade asked him there to wait for the Freak to finish "reviewing" the crime scene photos in his office, in case Anderson had "missed something."

Another flash. "What the hell?" he heard the sound of feet approaching. He turned in time to see a little kid—probably no older than two or three—running straight for him.

"Whoa, kid where are you going?"

The kid had dark curly hair, and grey eyes. His ears were a little pointed and stuck out slightly. He was grinning, and his tiny teeth were bright white and unevenly spaced. He wore a little red-and-green button-down short-sleeve shirt, denim jeans, and tiny red Converse.

"What are you doing here? Where are your parents?" Anderson asked him, like the kid could answer. The boy just grinned and took off down the hall again. Anderson gave chase.

"What in the hell are you doing Peter?" Sally Donovan asked as he ran by. "There's a random kid on the loose!" he called back, making a complete fool of himself by knocking into things and people in pursuit of the little boy.

He finally caught him at the end of the hall. Scooping him up, he looked for some way to identify him.

"Ahem," he heard from behind him.

Sherlock Holmes stood there, one eyebrow raised, his hands folded over his chest in an almost impatient and irritable manner.

"What do you want, Holmes? He's gotten away from his parents and I'm trying to make sure he gets back to them, wherever they are. Not that you'd understand.

"Actually, that's mine," Sherlock said, indicating the baby.

Upon hearing his voice, the child twisted in Anderson's grip so that he could see the speaker. When he finally got to a manageable angle, he grinned, reached toward the detective, and said: "Daddy!"

Sherlock grinned in turn, and took the child from Anderson, who was looking dumbstruck. "He didn't get away from me, I knew exactly where he was."

Still struggling to get over the fact that Freak had gotten some unfortunate woman pregnant, Anderson sneered. "Oh, yeah he was totally safe. You turned him loose in a police station."

"Yes, a place filled with officers who would have kept them safe should something have happened."

Having no reply to this Anderson simply said: "There's no way he's your kid. Who in God's name would sleep with you? Where is his mother anyway? Is she in an asylum?"

"Quite the opposite, she's in the office with Lestrade. She found several errors in your work by the way."

"Mama!" said the two year old who up until this point had been content in sucking his fingers and snuggling into his father's chest.

"Hello, love. Mummy's all finished with work now," said a frankly stunning woman coming out of Lestrade's office. She had the voice and words of a kind mother but not the appearance of one. In fact, Anderson thought with disbelief, she looked like someone he would go after. Someone who was most likely amazing and wild in bed.

"Oh she is." Sherlock said, intruding on his thoughts.

The woman must have guessed what they were talking about because she winked and touched Sherlock's arm lightly. "Thank you, dear." She said flirtatiously. She took the boy from him and then looked at Anderson, then back at Sherlock with a questioning eyebrow.

"Anderson." Sherlock said simply, vaguely gesturing toward the other man.

"Ah. I'm Irene and this is Nero," she said, indicating the young boy. "Don't let me have to come down here and do your work for you again. It's quite embarrassing for you."

And with that, she strode off down the hall, child in hand. Sherlock smirked at him before following her to the doors.

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**So, reviews? Yes or no? Like or hate? It was kind of fun to write this, so I think I'll continue. Still, reviews are good! Please leave one **


	2. Walking In

**I am a little paranoid about the rating on the chapter. It isn't very explicit (I don't **_**think…**_**), but there are definitely some descriptions of sex so…**

**Well, whatever. As promised, nothing explicit (I don't **_**think…**_**) so if you think I can keep it at teen, please say something, and if you think I need to move the rating up a bit, let me know.**

**This chapter is set a probably right before Reichenbach… or after Hounds of Baskerville, however you choose to look at it. Let's just say it's after ASiB and before the Great Hiatus. *sigh* it shouldn't be this hard for me to nail down a time period… Okay, READ!**

* * *

Lestrade was heading up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock had promised to have the case solved by seven o'clock. Seven had come and gone, but there was no word from Sherlock. The detective was getting worried. He knew what sort of shenanigans Sherlock could get up to in his spare time.

Mrs. Hudson let him in on her way out. HE smiled and thanked her and made his way upstairs.

He took a deep breath and started to make his way up the rest of the stairs, but he stopped when he heard voices…and Sherlock _laughing._

"So?" a female voice was saying.

"So what?" Lestrade heard Sherlock say, almost breathlessly.

"How was it?"

"…Amazing." Sherlock breathed, almost reverently. Well, as reverent as he was about anything.

"Good. I was really aiming to impress."

"Oh, you did." Sherlock said to the woman, chuckling a little. His chuckling became full on laughing, and Lestrade's eyes widened as he eavesdropped. Listening wasn't enough anymore. He peeked through the crack of the door to John and Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock was lying on the floor, naked from the waist up (and probably from the waist down, had it not been for the blanket). His chest rose and fell as if he was out of breath and one arm was pillowed behind his head. Two glasses of red wine sat forgotten on the coffee table. Lestrade could see that a woman was lying next to Sherlock, but he could not see her properly. He was silently frustrated.

Because Sherlock didn't do normal things like shag women with sexy voices. And even if he did, on the floor of the living room of the flat he shared with his best mate? It seemed Sherlock would at least go to his room. Then again, the mysterious woman could have had something to do with the couple's placement.

"What the hell are you laughing for?" the woman asked, and she twisted to look at Sherlock. Only then did Lestrade get a clear look at her. _Damn__, how does __Sherlock__ get __that__? _The woman was pale (like Sherlock), had an angular face (like Sherlock) and dark wavy hair (like Sherlock). It was like they had been made in a pair. She even had blue eyes, though hers were not as pale as Sherlock's. Still, it was rather eerie.

"You told me you'd make me beg for mercy twice."

"And?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"You didn't." Sherlock said, smirking at her. "Sorry, Ms. Adler."

"Oh no, Sherlock. _I'm_ sorry—did you think I was finished with you?" She pushed herself u from the floor, apparently not caring that the blanket had fallen and was no longer covering her (rather perfect) breasts. She kept close to Sherlock, but swung one leg over his body, then scooted down—all the while keeping eye contact—until the blanket was no longer covering Sherlock's nether region. Lestrade didn't _see anything,_ but it was still much more of Sherlock than he ever wanted to see.

Sherlock looked at the woman with widened eyes—though not widened in fear—more like lust, or desire or hunger. The woman—Mrs. Adler he had called her—was now straddling the consulting detective. He gripped her thighs, and she leaned down and seemed to be sucking Sherlock's neck.

Greg had been thinking it best e leave, but his gut feeling was affirmed as the anonymous woman appeared to bite Sherlock's neck and he heard an obscene moan escape the man's mouth. Sherlock shifted the woman who was sitting on top of him, and flipped her so that he was now on top. She chuckled and beckoned that he come closer. He did, simultaneously moving his hands downward.

Lestrade colored, and tried to leave as quietly as possible. He'd made it down two steps before he heard the woman sigh: _oh, Sherlock!_

Lestrade's blush deepened and spread. HE hustled to the front door. John was coming in as he was going out. "Hullo, Lestrade. What—"

"John! Hey, um…lets head to the pub down the street! I was…uh…looking for you. To—to invite you and you're e here now, so, uh, let's go!"

"Um, okay?"

He practically dragged John from the flat, blaming his blush on the cold weather.

The next day, Sherlock and John came in to solve the case the Sherlock was to have solved yesterday. And when Lestrade saw the bite mark on Sherlock's neck as he put his scarf back on, he kept the observation to himself.

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**Okay, once again, if you think the rating ought to go up to M over this chapter, please let me know. If you think it's fine as T, tell me and I will just leave it. **

**Aside from that, I am out for suggestions about any future chapters. If they are kind of nonsensical, like "Sherlock and Irene go skydiving," understand that I will not take it seriously, but if it's anything from "I want more Nero" to "Sherlock, Irene, and Nero go to a Yard picnic and Nero breaks his arm and…" I will certainly consider it. Understand that it is inevitable that I will slightly tweak any super detailed prompts. **

**But yeah, out for prompts. Personal Message or Review them.**

**Speaking of reviewing…REVIEW! **


	3. Merry ChristmasStripping Down

**This Chapter is to double as a sort of background and a Christmas story. Just so that everyone gains some insight into Sherlock and Irene's lives in my head. **

**Merry Christmas to all the followers of this story! Thank you for your support!**

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Three years ago, baker Street had gotten very…_cramped._ There was John, and his fiancée Mary; and Sherlock and sometimes Nero and Irene. There were baby toys and women's clothing scattered throughout the apartment. The lace was never quiet. Mrs. Hudson couldn't keep up with all the housework (even though she was _not_ their housekeeper).

That changed after John and Mary got hitched and moved out. It upset Sherlock a bit, since he still insisted there was enough room. But John and Mary's leaving sparked a domino effect: Irene and Nero moved in permanently, and 221B became "the Holmes-Adler residence."

Nero got bigger, as children do, and he had an interest in the violin. He was much like his father in that he got bored often and easily. But he wanted to play like his father, so he continued learning. Sherlock taught Nero things when he found time. Chemistry, anatomy, math. He taught him French and the violin. Irene taught him English, and history (which Sherlock claimed was dull). All in all, he was a very bright kid. And his violin playing was exceptional for a five year old.

* * *

John insisted on having holiday get-togethers. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Irene and Mary were friends and she thought it was a great idea. So Sherlock found himself playing a holiday concert on the violin every year.

This Christmas, everyone was actually having a good time. Mrs. Hudson's food was impeccable, and Mary had made a lovely chocolate cake for dessert. John wore a frankly awful jumper (like he did every year) and even Nero behaved. The boy was normally hyper-active—like Sherlock on a case—and he'd jump all over everything and deduce the presents and eat up all the candy all night long. Tonight however, Nero only did these things for a little while. When dinner time came, he sat and ate half his food, and grinned whenever someone commented on his intelligence.

He wore little dark jeans and dressy shoes and a white jumper Mrs. Hudson made for him. Irene had started cutting his hair, so it was only very curly on the top. And his teeth had started falling out—he was missing two on the bottom. (John had tried to convince him of the tooth fairy, but he said no impossible and gave the teeth to his father, who gave one back, and together they studied them under their respective microscopes).

After a slice of cake, they opened one present each. Nero opened all of his presents from everyone except his parents (who often bought elaborate gifts for him). He received a magnifying glass from Lestrade, a jumper and a beanie from Mrs. Hudson, slides from Molly (nothing too graphic: skin tissue, pancreatic fluid, the like), and a box of books and some aviator goggles from Mary and John (he had expressed an interest in flying). Nero thanked everyone politely, and loaded his gifts into a bag and dragged them upstairs.

* * *

A few hours later, while the adults were having drinks, Mycroft arrived. He'd started coming around more now that Nero was in the picture. "Where is he?" he asked after looking around for his nephew. "Playing with his new toys, I imagine." Sherlock drawled into his tumbler. Mycroft huffed, and placed a smallish box on the pile of presents. He stayed for a few glasses of scotch, then left in his shiny car.

After Mycroft left, the inevitable happened: Sherlock was asked to play. Surprisingly, he said: "No."

"Oh, Sherlock, but I enjoy your violin! Please, Sherlock it's a tradition!" Mrs. Hudson badgered him, but he wouldn't budge on the subject. "Well, violin playing should be a tradition, not just _Sherlock's_ violin playing."

"Oh but you play the best!"

"Well, there's a new up-and-comer. Nero!"

Nero (like his mother) liked people. But (like his father) he could only take them for so long. So he was upstairs hiding. The child was _great_ at hiding. Neither Sherlock nor Irene could ever find him if he put effort into it, so if he hid, they had to call for him or draw him out.

There was no answer this time. Irene sighed, then hollered up the stairs in French that sounded very menacing. Seconds later footsteps were on the stairs.

"Nero, Mrs. Hudson would like a violin concert. Perform for her." Sherlock said. "Okay." The little boy replied.

He grabbed his violin and bow from the table where his father's stood. He had scratches and scrapes all over his arms and legs from being too curious around bushes and shrubs and rocks. The little boy situated his bow like he was ready to play, until Lestrade stopped him.

"Where are your clothes, boy?!"

"Off." He replied, waiting from a signal from either of his parents to being playing.

"He doesn't like them." Irene said. "And he's five, he's not really hurting anyone."

"You're supposed to grow _out_ of taking your clothes off in public, not grow _into_ it." Lestrade said, still confused that neither Sherlock nor Irene nor Nero seemed to be uncomfortable with the boy's nudity.

"Detective Inspector, did I ever tell you how Sherlock and I met?" Irene said, while Sherlock snickered, and John shook his head. "It's a riveting tale—"

"Daddy, can I start?"

"Certainly."

And thus everyone at the party enjoyed (despite the lack of clothing) a lovely rendition of "Silent Night" performed by Sherlock's naked son.

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**Okay! I know this was up quick, but I had already typed Chapter 2 so I just typed Chapter 3 and threw it up for ya'll. **

**Still looking for prompts, don't be afraid to suggest something you want to see.**

**You know the drill: REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!**


	4. Learning From

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Hurry up, Lestrade." Sherlock hung up.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Lestrade pulled up to 221B in a marked vehicle, lights flashing. He came in to the flat, up the stairs and into the living room where Sherlock and his fifteen year old son were having a staring contest.

"I'm here."

"Obviously," Sherlock said without looking away from Nero, who was looking as rebellious and indifferent as Sherlock used to whenever Lestrade would lecture him on something. He was wearing a dark blue beanie on the back of his head, aviator goggles on top of it. His long black curls touched his shoulders and he rolled his grey eyes in their dark, eyelash frames. A black stud sat in his ear. He remembered when the boy had snuck and pierced his ears, and wrote it off as an experiment. Sherlock had been livid until Nero said that, but Irene was still upset. Nero also wore a black leather jacket on top of a dark, heather grey hoodie and a red t-shirt. Black skinny jeans and black combat boots, and silver bracelets and necklaces also decorated the teen.

Irene was responsible for the boy's style: she thought it was important he express himself and have his own identity. Lestrade was sure that if Sherlock's parents had let him express himself, he'd have dressed similarly.

"This is fucking stupid," he heard Nero mutter.

"What you did was fucking stupid," Sherlock said in a voice that told Lestrade that he was trying and failing to keep his anger in check.

"Okay, cool it, Dad," Lestrade said to Sherlock. _I'm too old for this…_ he thought.

Lestrade walked over to the irritable teenager. "Stand up, kid."

Nero rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Lestrade sighed, but spun him to where he was facing Nero's back and swiftly cuffed the boy. "What the—"

"Nero Wolfe Holmes, you are under arrest for possession and use of illegal drugs."

* * *

"Dad!" Nero said, his eyes bright with fear and anger. "You're just going to let him are—wait, you _called him?!_" Nero said, deducing his father's calm demeanor. "Yes," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with indifference. "Why? For _smoking pot?_ Dad! This is madness!"

"Sweetheart, by now you should know that nearly everything your father does is a least half madness. Hello, dear," Irene said, coming up the stairs, coat in hand. She gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the cheek and rolled her eyes when he didn't acknowledge it (this had been a tradition for who knows how long).

"Right then what's happening?" she asked, sitting herself on Sherlock's lap. "Your son's been caught smoking cannabis. Lestrade's placing him under arrest." Sherlock said, his eyes still locked on his son.

"Because _you_ called him! Mum, tell Father he's being ridiculous!" Nero never had been good at holding his tongue.

"Take him Lestrade."

"See you later, dear." Irene said, checking her phone for texts. Lestrade sighed at the oddly apathetic parents, shook his head, and led the boy downstairs.

"Uncle Greg, you can't seriously arrest me, right?" Nero pleaded. If he hadn't been so freaked out, he'd know that it was a moot question.

"Sorry, son." Nero's face fell.

They rode in silence to the Yard. Nero went through booking and processing, trying to look as apathetic as possible. "What's Freak 2.0 doing here?" Donovan asked. "Shut up, you dumb bitch." Nero snarled. Neither his mother nor father now anyone else who knew him or his family could figure out where his propensity for vulgarity came from, but the boy had a mouth like a drunken sailor. Neither Sherlock nor Irene ever disciplined him over it, so…

"Possession and use of illegal substances?" she read, ignoring the angry teen. "Like father, like son," she muttered. Nero didn't think he heard her right, so he simply let it go. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Here, son. Sit here till one of your parents comes to get you."

Nero slouched in the holding cell. What a waste of time.

* * *

Lestrade meanwhile, went into his office to take a phone call. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Please just do it, Lestrade. I'll come and pick him up in an hour or so. Do not file the arrest." Sherlock said on the other end.

* * *

Lestrade came into the holding cell with a rather thick folder and found the teenager drawing a rather impressive dragon on the walls with a pocket knife. "How'd you sneak that in here?" Lestrade asked.

"Magic." The boy quipped.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He sat on the bench with Nero. "How are you holding up?" he asked.

Nero ignored him. "What's that?" he said indicating the folder. Lestrade shrugged and handed it to him, saying, "Me going down a rather unpleasant memory-lane."

Nero looked at the folder's label: _Holmes, Sherlock_. "My dad got arrested?" Nero asked incredulously.

"Lots of times."

"What the bloody hell for?"

"See for yourself."

Nero nudged the file open. He flicked through, reading the charges at lightning speed. _Possession and Use of Illegal Substances._ Over and over and over again.

"What…"

"That's how we met. I was just a sergeant. I went on a drugs bust for overtime payment. Met him there, holed up with a bunch of other junkies."

"Other jun—my dad's not a junkie!"

"No, not anymore. Been clean for a while now."

"What did he do?" Nero asked quietly, his eyes wide with realization and yet disbelief.

"Definitely not marijuana," Lestrade said, eyeing Nero sternly. "He was on cocaine, usually. Sometimes heroin, and sometimes morphine. It went on for a few years, 4 or 5. Eventually, he overdosed on a speedball and your uncle Mycroft and I forced him into rehab. He got out, relapsed for a few weeks, went cold turkey after I found out and withheld the cases. He'd just gotten over the worse of it when he decided he needed a change of scenery. Meaning moving to the center of London, thus needing a flatmate. At that point, he met your Uncle John."

Nero was silent. "My dad was an addict…" he muttered. "Fucking _coke_? Seriously?" he said, shaking his head.

In lieu of answering, Lestrade simply turned in the folder to the pictures. The drugs they found on him were first in the photo pile. Needles were lined up and bags of white powder stacked. Next were a series of mug shots. Sherlock was depicted in various states of intoxication: in some his pupils were blown wide open and it was obvious that he was very high, and in some you could see he was crashing. Lestrade hadn't looked at them for a long time, for they brought back the unpleasant memories of the strung-out genius he kept having to arrest who—despite his brilliance—was only human and had a severe addiction that needed to be dealt with. He looked at the pictures of the pissed-off young man, track-marked and emaciated in the photos, and it broke his heart all over again.

Nero simply stared. "I'm sorry, son." Lestrade said.

"No, I am." Said a baritone voice from the door. "Dad!" Nero said, looking up.

"Nero," Sherlock said, walking toward the holding cell. He slid the door open and sat next to his son. He looked at the folder and pried it from his son's hands. He flipped through, a grimace on his face. Eventually, he closed it and practically shoved it at Lestrade.

"Dad, were you really an addict?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Nero. You're above that, and you saw the photos."

"_You?_" Nero asked, much akin to the way John did when Lestrade performed his first "drugs bust" in their flat.

"Yes. Cocaine, and sometimes heroin and morphine. I—I wasn't exactly the most stable person back then."

"Oh, yeah, but you're solid as a rock now." Nero muttered. Sherlock glared at him.

"Look, Nero. I'm glad you aren't experimenting with hard drugs like I did when I was your age. I had you arrested for a reason. I'm glad that you're not like me in this regard. Back then, I was so high so much of the time that I don't even remember half the times I was arrested. I don't want that for you, son."

Nero was taken aback. Not only was his father having difficulty saying all that he was saying to him, but he also called him 'son.' Usually, only his Uncle Lestrade called him that.

"Unfortunately, addictive personalities are hereditary. Which is why I had Lestrade arrest you. I just thought—well, I'm sure you understand. You are brilliant after all. Which is why I'm just saying…just _please_ don't start, Nero. I still struggle with it—everyday—and I've been clean for almost 16 years."

"But, Dad, it was just some pot, I didn't—"

"How do you think I started, Nero?"

The younger Holmes hung his head. "I need you to be better than me in this area, Nero. You have to be a better man."

"Okay, Dad."

Sherlock smiled at his son. "I know I cast a rather large shadow, but you have to at least try."

Nero grinned back and stood. "Don't worry, Dad. You're the giant who shoulders I stand on. But I plan to get so big I crush you."

The detective chuckled. He and Nero rose and made their way toward the exit. "Looking forward to it."

"That's what you say now."

"Sherlock! You can't just take him, there's paperwork!" Lestrade called after the pair, who were rounding the corner.

"I'm sure you can sort it out, Lestrade." A baritone voice called back, and Lestrade shook his head since he had no idea whether it was Sherlock or Nero who spoke. _Crush the giant's shoulders indeed…_

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**Yay! Another chapter down! This story is really fun, so keep it up with the prompts! I have some ideas for some more stories (at least 2 more chapters are possible in the next week or so) and by all means, keep inspiring me with your reviews!**


	5. Being Blunt

John and Mary walked in through the door to 221B. They heard the people upstairs and smiled and made their way up.

"Hello, John. Mary." Irene called around her wine glass. She was standing and swaying in time to the music. Sherlock stood behind her, with his arms wrapped around her waist and his face buried in the crook of her neck. At Irene's words, he looked up and nodded at them.

"Well, he's oddly affectionate." John said to Lestrade, who stood chatting with Molly. "Yeah, I think he's drunk." Lestrade said, shaking John's hand.

"He doesn't drink." John said, shrugging his coat off and taking Mary's. He made his way over to Sherlock. "Hey, Sherlock, what's up?"

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, his face flushed and his eyes glazed. His words slurred ever so slightly. _Wow, he is drunk_, John thought. Irene gave him a sly grin._ Oh, she did it_.

"Where's Nero?" Mary asked. "He went to sleep hours ago." Irene answered as the song ended and she moved to give Mary a hug. Then the two went into the kitchen to talk.

Sherlock handed John a drink and grabbed one for himself. They sat on the couch and awaited Mrs. Hudson. "Since when do you get drunk?" John asked, smirking. "I'm not drunk." Sherlock said into his cup. John simply looked at him, eyebrows raised. "It was an accident." Sherlock eventually conceded. John laughed.

"Seriously, where's Nero?"

"Sleeping, John! Some woman told Irene that children were supposed to have a set bedtime, and so Irene came home and asked Nero when he wanted to start going to bed. He decided on 9 o'clock. Thus he's been asleep for at least an hour."

"…You let your 6 year old son choose his bedtime?"

"Yes…is that not good?"

"I…I'm sure it's fine Sherlock." John said, shaking his head. He hoped he'd be at least a little more responsible than Sherlock with his child.

At this moment, Mary and Irene sat down too. Mrs. Hudson came upstairs in a new dress and smiled at the lot of them.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MRS. HUDSON!" they said in unison, and even Sherlock participated. Then the birthday party properly began.

* * *

An hour into the party, Nero came downstairs, having been awoken by the noise. "Daddy? Mummy?" he said, rubbing his eyes.

"Hello, dear. Did we wake you?"

"Yes."

"Well, sit down then."

Nero came and sat on his mother's lap. He leaned into her and yawned. John beckoned Mary to come sit by him.

"Everyone, we have some news, and we can't wait any longer." John started. Irene grinned, and Sherlock looked at her accusingly. "What?" he asked. "Shh!" Irene said, shooting him a glare.

Mary nearly burst: "I'm pregnant!" she exclaimed.

Everyone clapped and congratulated the couple, but Nero spoke up above all the noise: "What's pregnant?"

John looked surprised, until he remembered that although Nero was the product of two geniuses, he _was_ only six.

"It's when someone is about to have a baby."

"How?"

"What do you mean how?" John asked warily fearing the answer. His fears were well-based.

"How does someone get pregnant?"

John flushed and stammered, "Uh, well, um…Sherlock, you wanna explain this to your son?"

"Why? He asked you."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured for his son to look at him. Nero did—with big, wide, innocent eyes—and came to sit by his dad.

"Nero, someone gets pregnant when they have sex. A man—which is what you'll be when you grow up—penetrates a woman with his penis—which is what you have in your trousers. Then he has an orgasm, which may or may not impregnate the woman." Sherlock said with a straight face.

"Does the lady orgasmum too?" Nero asked earnestly. "Only if the man does a good job sweetheart." Irene said calmly, as if telling a bedtime story. Sherlock smirked at her then turned back to the child.

"_Orgasm_, Nero, and a woman's orgasm is not necessary for reproduction."

"It is if the man ever wants to have sex with that woman again." Irene muttered.

"But he's asking about the actual reproductive function of sex, Irene. Technically, the woman doesn't have to orgasm to be impregnated."

"If said woman is going to be knocked up she ought to at least get an orgasm out of it!" Irene shot back.

Nero was watching his parents like a tennis match. "So orgasms are good?" he asked his dad. Sherlock grinned. "You bet."

Lestrade choked on his wine. "Sherlock, couldn't you have just told him that cockamamie stork lark? I mean, honestly—"

"I think it's best to just be honest with him. He's far too intelligent to buy that shit anyway, Lestrade." Sherlock said in annoyance.

"Uncle John thinks you are being unnecessarily vulgar," Nero informed his father.

"That's because I'm inebriated, Nero." Sherlock explained.

"Oh."

"Oh, for the love of God…" Lestrade said. Molly and Mary stifled their giggles while John and Irene rolled their eyes and Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"Nero, dear," Mrs. Hudson started, "I think you should head up to bed now."

"Wait," he said, looking at his dad. "Daddy, can we have a baby?"

"What are you talking about Nero?"

"Will you impregnate Mummy?" the little boy asked bluntly.

"I already did that, Nero, that's why you're here." Sherlock said, causing everyone to color uncomfortably. Lestrade coughed awkwardly, and John shook his head wondering why they couldn't just have a nice gathering just _once_. Sherlock ignored them all.

"Will you do it again so we can have a baby?" Nero asked earnestly.

"Not on purpose. Good night, Nero." Sherlock said, patting his son on the back and sending him upstairs.

* * *

After everyone had left, congratulating John and Mary once again, Sherlock and Irene got into bed. Just as Sherlock was about to drop off to sleep, he heard Irene's voice.

"So what the hell did you mean, you don't want to have another baby?"

* * *

**Ooo, Sherlock's in trouble. **

**A guest asked if I'd do a story that commented on Nero's interest in a second baby and while I liked the idea, I _really_ didn't want to write another baby for Sherlock and Irene. They don't seem like they would have more than one kid on purpose (hence Sherlock's comment)**

**I liked writing the-birds-and-the-bees dialogue though. Can't you just see Sherlock being way too honest with a kid?**

**There will be a part two! Tomorrow maybe. Day after for sure. As always: REVIEW and PROMPT (I do actually read and work on the prompts you send, it's just that I have ideas I want to get down too. Understand that your prompts _will_ more than likely be written at some point.)**


	6. Playing Games

**The part two to "Being Blunt" as promised. If the characters seem OOC, I am sorry. I think I did okay, but if you think they are a little too OOC, let me know, and I'll attempt a rewrite. **

**I really want to thank everyone for reviewing and fro your prompts. They make me feel very good about posting this story adn I don't feel bad about spoiling you people by writing a _new chapter everyday_ (I'm so freakin' nice)**

**Well, BBC owns _Sherlock_ and so on and so forth. Go on and read!**

* * *

**Previously...**

"_Daddy, will you impregnate Mummy?"_

"_Not on purpose, Nero."_

"_So what the hell did you mean, you don't want to have another baby?"_

* * *

"What are you talking about?"

"You told Nero you didn't want another baby. Why not?" Irene asked.

"We already have one?" Sherlock said sarcastically. "His name is Nero, he sleeps upstairs, he's a bloody genius and a frankly stellar violinist, does he ring a bell?" He started to pull back the covers and get ready for bed. Irene did the same.

"Don't be an arse, Sherlock. IN case you haven't noticed, Nero is hardly a baby anymore. He's six, almost seven. And he's really grown up now that you've taught him the facts of life. Incorrectly, too. Don't you miss when he was a baby?"

"What, when you called—which you never do—and told me you were pregnant? And then I had to ask _Mycroft_ of all people a _favor_ to get you back into the country, after he was _already_ doing _me_ a favor and bringing me back to life? And then all the times we didn't know what we were doing and were practically stumbling around in the dark just hoping we didn't screw him up?" Sherlock asserted. "Are those the times you're asking me if I miss?" He said as they climbed in bed side by side.

"No. Don't you miss holding him? And giving him baths in his little bathtub? And how you and your damn violin were the only thing that could get him to quiet and sleep? I know you miss reading to him, since he he's been reading since he was three. I _know_ you miss _some_ of it." Irene said.

"Of course I do!" Sherlock nearly shouted. "But he's growing up and I just want to let him. I don't want to start all over with a brand new child. I just want life as we know it. With you. With my son. Why do you want change it?" Sherlock said exasperatedly.

"I think a new baby would be good for Nero. His intelligence far exceeds that of those even in his accelerated learning classes. Only a sibling would be able to give him the mental stimulation he needs, while still being in his age group."

"The child won't be in his age group! He'd be seven years old by the time it was born! _Mycroft _is seven years older than I am. They'll just butt heads."

"So this is about you and Mycroft?" Irene said softly, lifting an eyebrow.

"No, it's about how we're not having another baby." Sherlock said with finality. He turned away from her and curled into a ball like a child.

Irene glared at him. Then, the angry look on her face morphed into a sly, challenging expression. "I'll play you for it."

Sherlock turned around and saw that she was serious. "You want to play me for the life of a child I don't even want?"

"Yes."

Sherlock just stared at her. He loved her, but they both could be obliviously self-centered and do things that weren't exactly _proper_. And although this seemed…oddly _not good_, the prospect thrilled him. He already knew the game.

"Fine."

Irene rolled off the bed and grabbed the chess board from Sherlock's desk. Strip chess was a favorite of hers. She used to play strip poker with Sherlock, but they both cheated and counted cards too often for it to be productive. It was rare that Sherlock wanted to play strip _anything_ but he almost always said yes to strip chess.

The game was started as foreplay. Brainy was the new sexy after all, so what better way to get in the mood? With each play, a piece of clothing was bet (regardless if a capture occurred or not) and whoever's piece was captured had to remove the bet article of clothing. Whoever won the game or had the most captured pieces got to be on top. But eventually, the game was used to settle disputes and arguments, and the loser just had to live with the winner's decision. But they got to have great sex to make up the loss.

So when Irene said, "I'll play you for it," Sherlock felt vaguely aroused, but also determined. He'd be damned if he lost and had to attempt to raise another child. He never felt like he was any good at raising Nero. If they didn't have John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade and the rest, he was afraid of what Nero might have become. He was scared that if he rolled the dice and had another child, it was another chance to screw up. Nero turning out as well as he had so far was a miracle. Miracles didn't happen twice.

But as the game wore on, he felt more and more confident in his victory. Irene seemed frustrated. She was completely naked save her panties, whereas Sherlock still had his watch, trousers and boxers. Forty five minutes later, Irene had him in check, but he had her in checkmate, and he had most of her pieces.

She looked upset. "Fine, you win. No baby. We don't have to have your victory sex, god forbid you accidentally impregnate me." She said with a sarcastic voice and a scowl.

Sherlock was a little upset. He'd worked hard for his victory sex. But she was right he didn't want a baby. What was he going to do, never sleep with her again for fear of a child? _That_ wasn't going to happen so…

"How about you give me my victory sex, and we'll just deal with whatever happens?" he said, as Irene was rolling over to turn out her light.

She turned to him and grinned.

* * *

At 3am, they lay rather out of breath on the bed. "Mm, I like it when you win almost as much as when I win." Irene panted, a contented smile on her face.

"Likewise." Sherlock said between breaths.

"Sherlock, you know I let you win right?"

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did. Sweetheart, you're still a little drunk. If you weren't, you'd have seen that I could have taken your queen and put you in checkmate with my bishop three turns before you won, but I offered you my knight instead." Irene said.

"No—I…oh, for the love of—"Sherlock said realizing.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I don't really want another baby, not on purpose, anyway. I rather like your suggestion. You can keep shagging me brilliantly and we'll just…take whatever comes."

Sherlock was bitter over the "win." He just grunted and rolled over. Irene tsked. "Oh, Sherlock, come on, we were having a good night."

It was silent for a beat, then Sherlock rolled back towards Irene and without warning grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the bed. He crawled on top of her and said into her ear with a husky voice: "You have to take it twice for lying to me." Irene grinned and shuddered under his breath and the pressure of his weight. She could feel him hard against her thigh. "If you must. I've been a naughty girl after all."

* * *

The next morning, Nero came downstairs in a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and white converse. He wore the beanie Mrs. Hudson knit for him the Christmas before, and the aviator goggles from John and Mary on top of that. He had a grey jacket in one hand and he dragged is fire engine red backpack behind him and seated himself for breakfast. Irene, dressed in her purple silk robe, put a plate of toast and eggs and bacon in front of him, and gave him a glass of milk. Sherlock was already at his microscope, and Irene sat and checked her emails.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Nero ate a bite of everything until his milk was gone, then claimed he was finished. Irene and Sherlock looked up at the same time.

"Did I not eat enough?"

Sherlock glanced at his plate. "No you did fine. We wanted to talk to you about what we discussed last night."

"Sex?"

"Yes," Irene said. "More specifically, the fact that you asked if we could have another baby."

Nero's eyes brightened.

"I'm sorry, Nero. We don't think we should have another baby right now. We want to focus all our love and attention on you, sweetheart. But John and Mary's baby will be just as much your brother or sister as if by blood. And maybe one day your father and I will decide we do want another baby. But not now." Irene told her son gently but firmly.

Nero looked to his father. Feeling his son's eyes on him, Sherlock looked up and nodded in confirmation. The child's face fell. Irene sighed and gave him a slightly awkward hug.

He took a deep breath. "Are you sure?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes." Sherlock said without looking up.

"Okay." He said sadly. Irene was almost ready to change her mind _again _and hash it out with Sherlock until he gave in, even if he hated her forever.

Suddenly Nero's little face lit up. "I don't want a sibling anymore. It might me cleverer than me." Then he thundered down the stairs to wait for either parent to accompany him on the bus to school.

* * *

**Yay! This is loads of fun and you guys make it super worth it! I believe I received a prompt asking for reactions to Irene being alive, and Sherlock's reaction to Irene's pregnancy. There was kind of a sneak peak in this chapter, but I don't know if I like it. I might change it in a later chapter. The next one I probably will do will be Sherlock's reaction to the pregnancy. That could be fun. **

**After I post that one, my updates will probably become rather irregular because I have another story going that I haven't updated in a week. It's also a Sherlock fic, you guys should check it out.**

**Anywho, REVIEW and PROMPT :)**


	7. Dropping Bombs

**Welcome to Chapter 7! **

**I don't own Sherlock, et cetera, et cetera. **

**Read!**

* * *

Sherlock sat in the spare room of Mycroft's house. It was rather cold. He didn't know why his brother enjoyed freezing him like this. Then again, Mycroft had always liked it cold in his room. Matched his personality: _the Ice Man_.

Sherlock had just come out of hiding, having jumped off the roof of St. Bart's in view of his best friend at the whim of psychotic madman. He then spent the better part of two years travelling all over, taking apart Moriarty's web major player by major player, until finally, he'd succeeded and could return.

Unfortunately, this meant he had to stay with his older brother for a while. He sat on the floor in the spare room, playing _a_ violin his brother had lying around, not _his_ violin. John, apparently, had kept that after the funeral. Mycroft was off being the British government, but was also trying to surreptitiously bring Sherlock back to life officially before Sherlock made a public appearance.

He was shifting from Bach to a more contemporary piece by Yo Yo Ma, when he heard a noise. HE stopped the piece and opened his eyes. Setting the instrument down carefully, he rose and quietly moved toward the bedroom door. At the top of the stairs stood The Woman.

* * *

He just stared in disbelief. What the _hell_ did she get to London? More importantly, how did she get into _Mycroft's_ house? He opened his mouth to ask her when she crossed the hall in three short steps, pressed a finger to his lips and pushed him into the room again, closing the door behind her.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" he hissed, gripping her shoulders. "You _know_ how dangerous it is, especially to be in _Mycroft's_ house! May I remind you of how much my brother hates you?" he said, staring into her eyes so that she knew the intensity of the situation.

"Sorry, dear. I had to see you again." She said flirtatiously.

Sherlock, after leaving Molly Hooper's flat, went on the run. He'd stayed with the woman briefly in the beginning, promptly "having dinner" and thus shedding Moriarty's nickname for him: _the Virgin_. He travelled, going about his business. But he often returned to Irene's hide out whenever he got "hungry." Soon, her new flat was his headquarters. Despite that being quite dangerous for _her_, she liked it. Whenever Sherlock came home, "dinner" was an all-you-can-eat buffet.

"It's important." She added, severity entering her voice.

"Well, out with it. Mycroft will be home soon."

She stared at him, this time it was so that _he_ knew the intensity of the situation. He could tell she was trying to keep her voice devoid of emotion when she said: "I'm pregnant."

She stared back at her. It was quiet for a long time—almost three minutes. She didn't say anything else, and she didn't rush him to say anything. Finally though, he did speak.

"No, you're not." He said, desperate denial creeping into his voice.

"Yes, Sherlock." She said simply.

He swallowed, and looked her up and down. Then he sat down hard on the bed, as though he was suddenly weary. He looked anywhere but at her.

"I'm sorry." She said, her voice choking barely at the end. Sherlock's gaze snapped up at her when it sounded like she might cry. He stood and walked net to her, and stood there awkwardly for a moment, before reaching for her and pulling her into a hug.

They stood there for a long time; Irene quietly letting tears run down her face and soak into Sherlock's shirt; Sherlock thinking like mad about all the different scenarios that could possibly be attributed to this…event. They heard steps in the hall before the bedroom, but still they did not move. Mycroft walked in. "Sherlock, dinner is—"he trailed off. "What the _hell!?_" He roared, when he saw whom his brother was holding. Sherlock's eyebrows raised as he was dragged from his Mind Palace by Mycroft's yelling. Irene's head jerked up, but instead of looking afraid, she looked up at Sherlock, almost quizzically, like: _what should we do with him?_

Sherlock looked down at her, then back at Mycroft, who was struggling to control his breathing.

"Do you mind? We're kind of in the middle of something."

Mycroft's face was red and he began heaving again at his brother's words but he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Well, he's rather upset, isn't he?" Irene said, smirking a bit despite the traces of tears still on her cheeks.

"No matter. My overweight brother has given me an idea…"

* * *

"Mycroft?" Sherlock called, making his way downstairs, Irene's hand in his.

His brother sat at his table, downing a scotch. "What, Sherlock?" he said, sounding half angry, half weary.

"What the hell is she still doing here?" Mycroft said, sounding all angry this time. Irene said nothing. She knew she needed Mycroft Holmes if she was ever going to live in safety and comfort with her child, and the she would definitely need his help if she was going to live anywhere in the vicinity of said child's father.

"We have to…discuss…something with you." Sherlock started uneasily. Well, as uneasy as Sherlock ever was about anything.

Mycroft took a deep breath and gestured towards the seats in front of him. Sherlock and Irene took their seats.

"She's pregnant." Sherlock said, bluntly and without preamble.

Mycroft practically spit out his scotch. HE looked between them warily. "And what concern is that of mine or yours?" he asked, sounding nervous. Well, as nervous as Mycroft ever was about anything.

"I—"

"Sherlock, tell me you didn't." Mycroft said, putting his head in his hands.

"I slept with her." Sherlock said, glad he didn't have to avoid Mycroft's gaze.

"Are you sure it's yours?"

"Why would I risk coming back to London, and more importantly—_your_ house—if the child wasn't Sherlock's?" Irene said, speaking for the first time since they entered the room. Up until this point, she'd been trying to keep as quiet as possible so that she didn't make him any angrier, but he was calling into question her fidelity to the man she loved (even though she'd never admit it) and she would not take that from him.

"I heard you like to _misbehave_." Mycroft said with a sneer. Then he stooped. Within this sudden, startling and frankly _disgusting_ truth, was an entirely different truth that he overlooked in his rather appropriate response to this _baby _news. "How the hell are you even _alive?_" he nearly shouted.

"I was wondering when you'd get to that." Irene muttered. Mycroft looked ready to jump across the table at her.

"I did that too." Sherlock said, before Mycroft could strangle Irene.

"Sher—oh never mind we'll speak of that later. Why have you come to me with this?" Mycroft said, exasperated and tired.

"I've dismantled Moriarty's network, and thus she has nothing to fear from what's left of the Consulting Criminal's work. The only major institution preventing her from living in London is that of the British government." Sherlock said.

"And you _are_ the British government." Irene finished for him, one eyebrow cocked.

"Oh, you can't be serious. You want me to grant her passage back into the UK?" Mycroft laughed out loud, which he hadn't done in many years, at the absurdity of the request. "Never." He said, when he'd recovered.

"Mycroft—"Sherlock started.

"_No_, Sherlock."

"Mycroft, she's having a baby! _My _baby! _Your_ nephew! Don't you want someone new to 'worry' about? I know it's…sudden, and…inconvenient, and I know you despise her but _come on_. What happened to family?" Sherlock challenged.

"I will grant the child passage into the UK when he or she is born, but I will do no more." Mycroft said. He looked faintly green when he spoke of Sherlock's child.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock all but yelled. "It's not enough!" he said, getting to his feet.

"It will have to _be_ enough!" Mycroft snapped, standing as well.

Sherlock stood, staring down his brother for a moment. He took a few deep breaths, then closed his eyes. When he opened them, he swallowed and said: "Please."

Mycroft's eyes widened. The gravity of Sherlock's request was now fully impressed upon him. _Sherlock_ never _said 'please.'_

Mycroft sat back down and put his head in his hands. Then he sighed. "Honestly, Sherlock, thirty-one years of asexuality and when you decide you want to have a sex life it's with an officially dead fugitive charged with treason to the Queen?"

Sherlock looked like a teenager again when he looked at the ground and shrugged with one shoulder.

Mycroft sighed again. "I will see what I can do." He said finally.

* * *

**Another chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it, and please remember to REVIEW and PROMPT! **

**If you don't have a prompt, think about a prompt. Review and/or PM that prompt. Then wait for that prompt to come alive in one of my chapters.**

**I'm thinking of PMing whoever send the idea when I write the chapter. That way, you can know when to expect to see your chapter. If you'd like this, tell me. **

**And if you send a prompt, put your username in there. I know it shows up automatically, but it would probably help me keep it all straight. Example: ALollie: Nero invites his girlfriend to dinner… **

**OK, have a good NEW YEARS!**


	8. Inviting Over

**This chapter is for floratang, who has been awesome at reviewing and has been asking for a chapter featuring Sherlock and Irene and more children. So I introduce to you: the twins, Thalia and Alivia. Also, NewSlove, who has also been great about reviewing and jumped on board with the idea of Nero inviting a girlfriend home to meet the family. Cheers, NewSlove and floratang!**

* * *

Nero barged through the door, chasing his little sisters who gleefully ran up the stairs, laughing and making kissing noises. Thalia and Alivia thundered up the final flight and burst into the flat, where their mother was sitting and reading the newspaper.

"Mummy! Mummy!" they shouted.

"Yes, what is it?" Irene said, looking up from her paper and smiling at her daughters.

"_Nothing! _Absolutely _nothing_!" Nero shouted, coming in behind his sisters.

The twins looked at their brother to see if he was angry. Then they decided they didn't care. "Nero has a girlfriend! Nero has a girlfriend!" they sang and danced around the flat. Nero put his head in his hands and the tips of his ears turned red. Irene grinned at her son's embarrassment.

"Nero? You have a girlfriend?" Irene asked, standing and crossing over to her son.

"_No._" he said forcefully, a little _too_ forcefully.

Sherlock got back from his work with Lestrade at that very moment, Uncle John in tow. "Right then, what have we missed?" John said, looking around at the dancing twins.

"NERO HAS A GIRLFRIEND!" they shrieked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his son. "No, I don't." Nero said, his face and ears still red. Sherlock looked him up and down. "Yes you do." He said simply. He went into the kitchen and grabbed an apple, then sat down at his laptop.

John smiled fondly at his nieces. 'Rhyme and Reason' Sherlock called them. They were certainly as clever as everyone else in the house, but they were the most…_childlike_ children of Sherlock and Irene. John remembered when he, Mary, and Hamish went on vacation and returned to a visibly pregnant Irene. "Why didn't you tell me Irene was pregnant again?" John had asked him. "I did." Sherlock said. "No you thought about telling me, and forgot to." John said, shaking his head. "The end result remains the same." Sherlock said shrugging it off. When the twins were born, John again stared at his friend and asked: "Why didn't you tell me they were twins?!" Sherlock just looked dazed. "I didn't know either." he'd said. But Sherlock spoiled his daughters, and they loved him best.

John sat in his chair. "Tally, Livie, what makes you think Nero has a girlfriend?" he asked. They kept dancing but took turns answering.

"We were waiting—"Thalia started.

"For him to pick us up in a cab." Alivia finished.

"When he got there, we ran to the car—"

"But there was a girl in the cab too!"

"And he said we were just splitting the fare—"

"And taking her home—"

"But then they kissed when we dropped her off!" they finished together, squealing.

Sherlock smiled behind his laptop. Nero's entire face glowed red. "What does she look like?" Irene asked Nero. He opened his mouth to answer, but his sisters beat him to it.

"She's pretty!" they said, coming to flank their brother on the couch. "She has ginger hair and pale brown eyes and a little nose and a pretty mouth." Thalia said. She was 'Reason.'

"She looks like a fairy!" Alivia exclaimed. She was 'Rhyme.'

"I had a girlfriend who looked just like that in university," Irene said wistfully. John rolled his eyes. "What's her name?"

"Jane Reynolds." Nero muttered reluctantly.

"Is she coming over for dinner?" Irene asked.

"_Hell_ no." Nero said vehemently.

"Yes! Yes! We want to see Jane!" the twins shouted. "Thalia, Alivia, go upstairs." Sherlock said. The twins finally stopped their jumping and dancing and went up to the room they shared.

"Nero, call her and ask her over for dinner." Irene said. "Don't force him, Irene." Sherlock said.

"Oh quiet Sherlock, you're the reason he doesn't want to invite her over."

Sherlock was quiet but looked intensely at his oldest. "She's kind of right Dad."

"Why am _I_ the reason you don't want to invite her over?" Sherlock asked, as though he honestly had no idea. John stared at him incredulously. "For the same reasons _I_ didn't want to invite _my_ girlfriends over!"

"I never understood that." Sherlock said waving him off and looking at Nero again.

"Dad…you're a dick."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You'll deduce the shit out of her and you'll probably make her cry. And then she'll never talk to me again."

This had happened before. With Molly Hooper, with various clients, with some of John's more dull and fragile girlfriends in the past. So he couldn't deny it, but he did anyway. "I am not a dick."

Nero rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Dad."

Sherlock stood and grumpily took up his violin and began to play. Nero rolled his eyes again, then retrieved his backpack from the floor. "See you later, Uncle John." He said, thundering upstairs.

* * *

Months went by, and Jane Reynolds didn't come up more than twice. The twins still wanted to see her, but Nero hid her away. Then, one day it happened.

"Jane wants to meet you guys, for some fucking stupid reason," Nero grouched one day at dinner, shoveling food into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten for days.

"Language, young man." Mrs. Hudson said, when it was obvious that neither Sherlock nor Irene cared enough about the boy's profanity to say anything. Uncle Mycroft was over, and he asked with interest, "Who's Jane?"

Sherlock and Nero both scoffed and rolled their eyes at his comment. "Like you don't know." They said in unison.

"Oh, the pretty ginger? Is she only just now asking to meet your parents?" Mycroft said. Nero ignored him and stood to get seconds.

"Well, I'd like to meet her." Irene said. "Yes, Mum, you've made that abundantly clear." Nero said from the stove. Sherlock snickered.

"Invite her over, then." Irene said, staring at her son until he looked away.

"He did." Sherlock said, his food forgotten and his hands steepled under his chin. Apparently he was only half invested in the conversation. The other half was engrossed in the double homicide with absolutely no fingerprints, hairs, or fluids left behind.

Nero glared at him. "Yeah, I did."

"When?"

Nero wolfed down the last of his second helping of dinner. "T'moffow" he said around his food.

"Tomorrow? Isn't that rather sudden?" Irene said over the twins who were squealing in delight.

"Yeah, but you've been asking to meet her since forever. I thought you'd be thrilled." Nero said smirking.

Sherlock chuckled again.

* * *

**Once again, this chapter was for NewSlove and floratang. I like the twins, and I may write more of them but it won't be often, I don't think. My headcanon doesn't feature Sherlock and Irene with multiple kids, since they just don't see like the big-happy-family-type, but you know…Tally and Livie are cool. I might do one more with them grown up, and Sherlock being overprotective…yeah, that'll probably happen.**

**Also, in case you didn't notice this is another two part-er. But there will more than likely be a story in between these parts. I got inspired the other day, and I am excited to get it written down then posted up for you guys. Thanks for being amazing. **

**REVIEW AND PROMPT**


	9. Being Born

**I am so sorry about how long you people have had to wait for an update. I started another round of chemo and I haven't been feeling well. But I also applied for university (cross your fingers that I get in!) **

**Well Series 3 is finished for you lucky UK bastards, and is well underway for we American bastards. I don't really know when you'll get it if you aren't in America, but you now good luck to you! **

**Anyhow, another chapter. It is **_**not**_** part two the Nero-girlfriend-dinner one, that will come up later though. **

**I don't own Sherlock, yadda yadda. Read, Enjoy!**

* * *

"Who let _you_ be a bloody _forensics specialist?!_" Sherlock bellowed. Anderson was trying not to look upset, but he was a little pissed off at Sherlock's criticism. He had accidentally corrupted a vital piece of evidence, and Sherlock claimed it was the only viable link to the suspect.

"And _you_ idiots let him!" the consultant continued. Lestrade just let him; he was pissed about the evidence too.

"God, if there was _ever_ anyone I wanted to assault, and get away with it—"he was cut off by his phone ringing in his pocket. He stopped mid-rant, and his eyes widened as he looked down at his pocket. Lestrade's eyes were wide as well. Only recently had Lestrade learned Sherlock's…_significant other_…was pregnant. Ever since she had reached the third trimester, Sherlock had been on edge. She was six days late, and Sherlock had been jittery in anticipation. No one from the Yard knew of the impending Holmes child but Lestrade. He'd been shocked. Honestly dumbstruck. Sherlock didn't do that…did he? Apparently he did, and apparently he wasn't exactly careful about it.

Lestrade gestured towards the pocket. Sherlock looked frightened—well, as frightened as he could look—and shakily answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade could hear someone speaking loudly on the other end. Sherlock paled and hung up without saying anything. "Well?" Lestrade asked.

"I have to go." He said quietly. He then left in a hurry. Lestrade considered for a moment or two, the dashed out after him, leaving his team behind in confusion.

* * *

It was a slow day for John. Nothing much was going on and he had been sitting in his office in the surgery for hours. He knew it was bad to wait for someone to get hurt or ill, but _god _could this day get any more _boring?_

"Oh, god, I'm turning into Sherlock," he muttered.

He was paged by a nurse in the emergency wing around lunch time. "Dr. Watson, there's a woman here to see you."

He thought at first it might me Mary, a new woman he'd been seeing. But no, Mary would just call. He abandoned his lunch and went to see who it was that was calling for him.

Upon arrival at the wing, he noticed the very pregnant Irene Adler in a gurney. "Dr. Watson," she said in greeting, though her voice sounded strained. Sweat was beading on her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed under the strain of labor but other than that she looked fine.

"It's happening?" he asked. "Now?"

"Yes. I called Sherlock, but he didn't say anything, he just hung up." She said, her fists gripping the sheets in what he assumed was a response to labor pains.

"He's frightened." John said.

It was true. In the past few weeks Sherlock had absorbed every baby book ever written (and thought John didn't know about it). Every time John brought up the impending birth of his child Sherlock looked like he might vomit. Randomly, he'd ask John what would happen if certain aspects of birth went awry, and when John answered he'd furrow his brow and retreat to his mind palace for hours.

"Really?" Irene asked in bland, obviously disbelieving.

"Petrified." John assured her.

"No, he isn't. He doesn't even care."

"I promise he does."

Irene looked at him and just shook her head, then struggled through another labor pain.

John looked up as though he'd just realized something. "Why'd you call for me? I'm not your obstetrician."

"No, but you are my GP."

"I'm not qualified to deliver a baby!"

"Relax, you're just here for moral support."

John swallowed.

* * *

Lestrade and Sherlock rode in the cab on the way to the hospital in silence. Lestrade was awed by Sherlock's uncharacteristic actions. He'd locked himself in his mind palace almost as soon as they'd gotten in the cab. He was wringing his hands, and frowning, and every once in a while he'd mutter something under his breath.

Lestrade, for his part, was curious. He hadn't met Sherlock's…girlfriend. Hadn't even see a picture of her. The only reason he even knew about the child was because he saw a black and white sonogram picture laying on the desk during a "drugs bust." He'd asked about it, and had been shocked when Sherlock had even deigned to answer considering how ticked he'd been about the Yard tearing up the flat.

"What's this?" he'd said, picking up the sonogram.

"A sonogram photo, obviously."

"Yeah, but why do you have it?" Lestrade said, in minor annoyance.

"It's mine."

"The baby or the picture?" Lestrade said, jokingly.

"Both." Sherlock had said, completely seriously.

Lestrade had never met the baby's mother, though John had told him a bit about her. He'd said she was very pretty, and that she was incredibly smart. He also eluded to the fact that she and Sherlock had a complex past.

_Complex future as well then_, he thought, watching Sherlock. He looked rather calm, but he drummed his fingers on his knees impatiently, and Lestrade could hear him taking quick, shallow breaths. _Just like any normal, nervous dad,_ Lestrade thought, with a mixture of awe and compassion.

They arrived within 15 minutes, thought Sherlock hopped out of the cab as though it was on fire. He dashed into the building. Lestrade followed.

They saw John waiting at the entrance for them. "Sherlock, glad you made it—"

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked, looking around as if for clues.

"Calm down, not much yet. She's only just fully dilated. The doctor wants to wait a few more minutes for the epidural to kick in, so you can—"

Sherlock walked briskly down the hall. John shook his head.

Sherlock came back within a matter of moments. "She's not in the room. You said—"

"Are you sure you went to the right room? You didn't even let me tell you—"

"It's on the board behind you. Where's she gone?" he asked, obviously frantic but trying to control his voice. "I'll ask, you and Lestrade can go sit in the waiting room." John said, sounding tired.

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest but Lestrade took him by the elbow and led him to the waiting room.

* * *

There was rarely a time when Mycroft Holmes didn't like his job. But today, he really wished he didn't have so much to do. His nephew was due any day now, and while _caring_ was certainly not an advantage, he may as well admit that he could hardly help himself when it came to Sherlock. And while he still _despised_ that _woman_ for seducing and deflowering his little brother, she was his nephew's mother. (No, Sherlock and Irene didn't know the sex of the baby yet—_surprises _and all—but Mycroft _hated_ surprises, so it wasn't too hard to find out. And he had to admit, he was a bit happy it was a boy). As each day past the due date went by, everyone who knew of the child grew more and more anxious. Especially Sherlock.

"Sir?" Anthea said, popping her head into his office.

"Yes?" he said, grateful for the distraction.

"Irene Adler has been admitted to Bart's hospital. She's gone into labor and is now fully dilated. The child is being delivered as we speak."

Mycroft felt himself get jittery and excited, but he controlled his emotions and schooled his features. "Is my brother there?"

"Yes, with Dr. Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"How is he holding up?"

"He isn't."

Excellent. _Now_, he had an excuse to get some fresh air. He'd have gone anyway, but he felt better about it now: two birds, one stone.

"I will be going to provide company and support for my brother during my nephew's birth. Call the car," he instructed, rising from his seat.

* * *

It was something John never thought he'd see. Sherlock looked…_normal._ In a room full of other expectant fathers and families, he blended in well. John noticed the detective looked…pale, anxious. _Scared._

"Sherlock, will you relax? Everything is going to be fine."

"They've been in there for 10 minutes. It doesn't normally take this long does it? What if something's gone wrong?" he asked, resting his elbows on his knees and fidgeting with his hands.

"I assure you, brother dear, it takes much longer than ten minutes to birth a child. You took approximately forty seven minutes to come along, if I recall correctly." Mycroft said, arriving and sitting opposite his brother.

Instead of a snide comment such as, "Piss off, Mycroft," or "Oh, great, _you're_ here," Sherlock simply looked at his brother, worry etched into his face. He almost looked like a little kid.

"Don't look so upset. Everything is fine." Mycroft said, sounding oddly…compassionate.

"But—"

"Everything. Is. Fine." Mycroft said, with the authority of someone who'd had lots of practice being an older brother.

Sherlock took a shaky breath. "Okay." He said quietly.

The four sat in silence for twenty more minutes. Sherlock would drift in and out of his mind palace, afraid to get lost in his head to long lest he miss something important. Mycroft ran the world from his phone—or rather, he instructed Anthea on how to run small parts of the world from _her_ phone. Lestrade took a call—Donovan had found a solid lead on the case. John simply watched the crap telly on the little TV in the corner.

Finally, _finally_, a nurse came out and said loudly, "Holmes?"

* * *

John had never seen Sherlock move as fast as when he jumped up and pushed the nurse out of the way. By the time the rest of the party followed him, he'd found Irene's room, but was standing outside the door.

"Sherlock? Go on in, you've been sitting on pins and needles for a little over half an hour!" Lestrade said.

"I'm…apprehensive."

"You're scared. It's okay," John said soothingly. "It's a normal reaction. But you've got to force yourself to go in. After that it'll be cake, I promise."

The detective looked at each of them in turn, and at a nod from Mycroft, he took a deep breath and went inside. The policeman, the doctor, and the British government filed in one by one.

* * *

Irene was on the hospital bed. She smiled wearily at Sherlock, who sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Her face was devoid of makeup, but she was still gorgeous.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes." She said in tired sigh.

"Ms. Adler," he said quietly.

"Congratulations," she said, shifting to make more room for him. "You have a son."

John could see Sherlock's eyes widen marginally. He knew he wanted to see the child. His gaze flicked to the little basket containing the new Holmes. But he then looked back at Irene.

"Oh, go on. I know you want to."

He hopped up and tried to control his gait as he all but bounded to the corner of the room where his son slept. Resting his hands on the edges he peered inside.

The boy was tiny. His little hands were curled into tiny fists, and he lay on his back, snoozing under the warmth of the lamp. Every once in a while his little foot twitched, or he shuffled his fingers. Sherlock just stared silently. Then the child sighed contentedly.

It was then John noticed the tears in his friend's eyes that gathered but did not fall.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

Sherlock took off his signature coat and laid it gingerly across the foot of Irene's bed. He then carefully scooped up the baby, the way he'd seen various mother's carry their very small, very _new_ children. The boy opened his eyes as Sherlock sat down on the bed nest to Irene again.

The cap the baby wore slid off and he had lots of thick, curly…_blonde?_...hair.

"I swear he's yours. I've no idea why his hair is so light." Irene said, her eyes locked on her son's head.

"Sher—"Mycroft's voice cracked, and he cleared his voice and began again. "Sherlock's hair was blonde when he was born. It didn't really darken until he started walking. It'll get darker as he gets older." The older man came closer. John and Lestrade followed suit. They all looked down at the tiny boy.

The baby stared back at them with Sherlock's kaleidoscope eyes. He seemed contemplative, almost like he was…_deducing _them.

His parents smiled.

"Well what shall we name him then?" Irene said.

"You did all the work, you should get to pick," Sherlock said, not taking is eyes off of his son.

"How about Mycroft?" Irene said jokingly, causing the new Uncle to roll his eyes.

"You can pick anything but that." Sherlock said.

She thought a bit. "I like Nero."

At that, the boy looked toward his mother, almost as if he were acknowledging her. It wasn't lost on Irene. "Nero it is then."

"Phonetically pleasing." Sherlock commented mildly.

"Hello, Nero."

The baby smiled.

* * *

**Okay, hope you liked it! Review, Prompt! Enjoy life! I love you all (I'm sorry I'm so happy, I'm being pumped with a **_**lot**_** of drugs right now :D )**


	10. Telling Stories

**This was commissioned by someone….Can't remember. I had them all written in the notes in my phone and then I got a new one. But if you asked for a story about Irene and Sherlock trying to get Nero to bed with a song or bedtime story this is for you. No Sherlock in this one, unfortunately. Just Irene and Nero and some brief John. **

**I don't own Sherlock, but enjoy!**

* * *

"Mummy, where's Daddy?" Nero asked for the third time. The child knew exactly where his father was, but was simply stalling to avoid going to bed. Irene wasn't falling for it.

"Daddy is in Belgium, working on a case, love. You know that." She scooped him up and carried him off to his room, passing John in the hall.

"He still won't go to sleep, huh?"

The child twisted in his mother's arms, and said in an annoyed tone worthy of his father: "_He_ is right here. And I'm not tired," he whined, also worthy of his father.

"Too bad. Off to bed with you." Uncle John said in a teasing tone, prompting Nero to stick his tongue out and turn away.

"Mummy, I'm not sleepy," he said, protesting all the way to his room.

Irene sighed. She normally worked nights, but with Sherlock out of town, she had to deal with getting their son to bed. It wasn't easy, and when Sherlock got back she would take his passport so he never left the country again. "What does Daddy normally do?" she asked wearily.

"Sing. Or play his violin. Or both." He said, his eyes wide and shining in the lamp light.

"Daddy recorded his violin music, would you like me to play it?"

"No! I only want real violin music."

Irene sighed. "Well, I can sing for you." She suggested.

"No! Mummy's voice is a lady voice. Daddy has a big man voice."

Another sigh. It was going on midnight and the four year old was determined to stay awake. "How about I tell you a story?"

Nero thought this over. Finally he consented. "Fine…"

"What kind of story?"

"An adventure story!"

Irene racked her brain. No one ever told her bedtime stories as a child. She couldn't think of any children's stories that Nero might be interested in. But maybe.

"Okay this is a true story. It's fact, all of it. And it's about Mummy and Daddy, alright?"

Nero eyed her suspiciously, making her want to laugh out loud despite her fatigue. "Alright…"

* * *

"In Pakistan, Mummy had run into a bit of trouble. Mummy had angered a few people, because she knew secrets. Secrets they didn't want her to know. I was captured by some of the bad people. And they were going to kill me."

Nero's eyes widened.

"Just as I thought all hope was lost, and I had made peace with my death, a thought struck me. And I asked my executioner to allow me to send one last text. He agreed. So I pulled out my phone and typed quickly: _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._"

"That's Daddy!"

"It is." She readjusted Nero's covers and continued.

"Then, my executioner got a text."

"But I thought you texted Daddy?"

Irene smiled and waited for it all to click into place for her son. Suddenly he gasped. "Daddy was gonna _kill you_!?"

"Let Mummy finish the story darling."

"Okay. Wait, how'd you know Daddy got a text?"

Irene smirked. "He had a very specific text alert tone for Mummy dear."

Nero looked curious but was eager to hear the rest of the story. "Oh."

"So anyway, the executioner—your daddy—got a text. I felt a glimmer of hope. I looked up at him, and I could see him smile. And then he said: 'When, I say run, _run!_' Then he turned around and began to fight off my captors with the sword they gave him to execute me with. When they had been incapacitated, he shouted 'Run!' and together we ran through the desert to one of the Jeeps the terrorists left around camp.

"We jumped into the car, and he started it and drove like mad through the desert to a small city. He had a hotel room there and he'd brought spare clothes. He'd solved a case for one of owners of the hotel, and the man let him stay there under a false name, and promised not to tell anyone we were there."

She was pleased to see Nero looked intrigued and sleepy at the same time. "Then what?" he yawned.

"He let me go upstairs and have a shower, and he gave the clothes he had bought for me. Then we argued a bit. I tried to thank him, and he said he only did it because he thought I was intelligent and should be kept around. I told him I thought it was because he loved me."

"It was because he loved you, right?"

"Sweetheart, you know Mummy always wins."

Nero blinked sleepily, but nodded emphatically. Mummy _always_ won…

"Eventually, you're right, he admitted that it was because he love me. And as soon as he admitted it, we—"Irene stopped. Funny she never had issues talking about sex with anyone. She could and would use it to her advantage, and often. But it didn't seem something to tell her four-year-old son.

"We…_kissed_."

"Ew!"

Irene grinned. "Well, it happened. _Over and over again_." She said, saying one thing but meaning another.

"Gross, Mummy."

"Well I told you it was a true story." Irene said, running her fingers through the boy's dark curls.

"Where was I? After all the se—_kissing_, your father fixed up the scene at the terrorist camp to make it look like I had really died."

"Why?" Nero asked, yawning again, his eyes falling closed."

"He needed to fool Uncle Mycroft. Uncle Mycroft didn't like me much either. To this day, I don't know how your father managed to swing it, but he did. Then he came back to the hotel, and handed me a brand new passport and a new driver's license…a whole new identity. Even a new phone, that looked just like my old one. We kissed once more, and then parted at the airport. He was on a plane to England, and I on one to America. I stopped him to put my new number into his phone, but he said he already had it in, with the old text alert tone. I leaned over to see what name he's put in it: Irene Adler, or Amelia Baker, my new name."

"Which was it?" Nero muttered, sleep nearly over coming him.

"Neither." Irene said, smiling fondly at the memory. "Just, _The Woman._"

**Sorry my updates are getting so infrequent, guys. I'm running into some complications with my chemo therapy, and on top of that, my teachers are piling on the homework. Anyhow, PLEASE REVIEW AND PROMPT! and if I haven't written your prompt, remind me. have a good rest of the week!**


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